


Bacardi

by twinkinu



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (the rape mention is seriously subtle blink-and-you'll miss and is not a plot point), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Love, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Guilt, Happy Ending, Homeless Grunkle Stan, Hospitals, I promise, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intoxication, Self-Hatred, Stangst, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 00:21:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10673805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinkinu/pseuds/twinkinu
Summary: One night, Stan gets drunk enough to actually talk when Stanford picks up the phone.





	1. 18:54

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a vent fic. A bit of an exercise in writing style.
> 
> Please, please, please read the tags.

Usually, Stan drank whiskey. Sometimes, scotch.

And when Stan got drunk, he was reckless. He was angry. He was belligerent and aggressive and he got into fistfights that he always won but never without taking a decent beating. He would stew in his anger and hatred for the world and just let himself be mad, let himself hate the world and life and the shitty fucking hand it dealt him. 

Sometimes, Stan drank vodka. On occasion, he'd even down some gin.

But Stan never, never,  _ never _ drank rum.

When Stan drank rum, he didn't get angry.

He got sad. He got honest. He hated himself instead of the world and he punched walls instead of people and he cried instead of yelled and instead of blaming the world or G-d or fate or whatever for his shitty fucking life, he just thought about how everything was  _ his fault. _ All he could focus on was how his life was in the toilet because of  _ himself, _ and he missed Ma and he missed the meals she cooked and he missed having meals to eat so he didn't have to go to bed hungry and he missed having a bed to  _ go to _ so he could sleep, even if he had to go to school in the morning. Hell, he even missed school sometimes; anything that meant having a home, he missed. 

He missed  _ Ford. _

Goddammit, did he miss Ford.

But there was only one thing Stan hated more than drinking rum: being sober. 

So when he dug through all the bottles on the floor of his car (and in the back... and under the seats... and in the trunk...) only to find that all of them were empty save for an old bottle of Bacardi, he figured he might as well live a little. 

And when he finished the bottle and found another one... Well, he figured he might as well die a little.


	2. 21:15

Stanford had been getting these... calls, lately. They'd been happening a couple times a week for the past month or so. The phone would ring, he would answer promptly ("Hello, this is Stanford Pines!"), there would be a thick moment of silence, then the line would go dead. Every once in awhile, he could hear distant bar fights or police sirens in the background of the call, but never anything more.

He shrugged it off. The calls were a nuisance, yes, and a tad eerie, but they were doing no real harm. Surely it was only a telemarketer, maybe a prank caller, perhaps even some sort of weirdness field in the town that interacted with his phone and caused it to ring at random intervals (which, come to think of it, would have actually been  _ incredibly _ fascinating).

No, Stanford never thought anything of the sporadic phone calls to his Oregon home. Not until one night, when he picked up the phone and instead of hearing silence or distant riots, he heard crying.

Actually, it wasn't crying—it wasn't dignified enough to be crying. It was whimpering and sniffling between drunken belches and coughs. Stanford initially assumed it to be some prank in poor taste and almost hung up, but he stopped himself when someone started shouting at whoever was using the phone.

He could barely make out what was being said.  _ "Hey, you! You've been loiterin’ in front of my bar for hours! Go find some other payphone to mope around!" _

_ "F-fuck you, pal! I'm talkin' to my- to my brother, here!" _

Stanford froze. 

_ Stanley? _

_ "I don't care who you're talkin' to! I don't want parasites like you around here harassin’ my customers!" _

_ "I ain’t harassin’ n-nobody!" _ said the man (Moses,  _ was _ that Stanley? It  _ did _ sound like his voice, if not slurred and weak and wasted).  _ "C’mon, l-lemme jus’—” _ He cut himself off to make an aborted sort of retching sound followed by a nauseated groan.  _ “Gimm _ e  _ ten minutes, okay? I, I jus' need ten more minutes, then I'll-" _ He hiccuped, then exhaled uncomfortably.  _ "I'll, I'll leave in ten minutes. Ten." _

There was a brief pause, some unintelligible conversation, then the sound of Stanley’s breathing as he turned and put his mouth properly against the receiver. His voice came through louder and clearer than before.

"Ford, I- Fuck, I only got ten minutes, so I gotta- I gotta make it quick, alright?" 

Stanford clenched his fists and shook his head. How could Stanley have the nerve to call after eight years of radio silence, drunk off his ass and sputtering through a payphone? "I have nothing to say to you."

"S-Sixer, I- I-" A burp, then a choked cry. "Fuck, Ford, I-I gotta-"

"You're drunk."

"I, I-I know," Stanley whined, and Ford sighed.

"I've no idea how you got this number, Stanley, but don't call again." His hand was a centimeter from pressing to hang up when Stan cried out,

"I'm sorry!"

Ford pulled his hand away fractionally, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm so, I'm so s-sorry Stanford, I'm, I didn't mean to break your project, I didn't, I-I didn't mean to ruin everything." There was a loud thud, like a head banging against a wall, then a muffled groan. "I m-miss you. I miss home. I-I hope life is good for ya, Sixer. I-I hope, I hope you're doin' good." 

Stanford took a deep breath. "Stanley. You're  _ drunk." _

"Nn-N-" He made a noise that was a sort of distorted cross between a hiccup and a burp. "N-no  _ shit, _ Sherlock."

Ford was getting impatient. “Why did you call me, Stanley?"

"I-I didn't want the last- the last time we, we talked to be- t-to be that night."

The elder twin rolled his eyes. "You're not exactly creating fond memories, here-"

"I know I'm the- I'm the  _ fuckup, _ Sixer. I kn-know that I-I-I deserve what I got. I-I'm jus' sorry y-ya ever had t-to be related to me. I wish, I-I... I wish I coulda been a good brother."

This didn't feel right. Why was Stanley being so self-deprecating? He'd never been like this before.

"I-I'm such a piece of, a piece of sh-shit, Sixer. I'm-I'm such a-a worthless g-goddamn p-piece of, of  _ shit! _ I'm so s-sorry I was born. No one ever w-w-wanted me t-to be, to be born, S-Sixer, I'm- I’m so sorry..." 

He tapered off into soft whimpers and cries, interrupted periodically by hiccups and wheezes. It went on like that for several minutes; occasionally, there would be a crash or a bang in the distance, a row or a shout. Stanford was speechless. 

When Stan finally spoke again, he said, "I jus', I-I jus' wanted t-to say g'bye, Sixer—to say goodbye..."

Ford sat up straight, his full attention suddenly warranted. "Excuse me?"

"I know y-ya didn't wanna hear from me, b-but I had t-to hear your voice ag-gain. I h-had to-" A gasp, a belch, a groan, and three more rapid thumps of skull against wall. "T-to say I was s-sorry."

"Stanley, I-"

_ "Alright, deadbeat—time's up!" _

"Stanley?"

"S-" Hiccup. Cough. "S-sorry, Sixer. I-I'm sorry."

"Stanley, wait-"

_ "Hey! I said time's up! Now get your sorry ass away from my bar before I call the cops!" _

"Lee?"

Another loud thump, then a retch and a sob.

"Lee?!"

The line went dead.


	3. 22:22

Stanford didn't know what to do.

He just sat there, feeling empty. Confused. Desperately tied somewhere between denial and dread and grief.

Mostly denial.

Stanley had been drunk—that was all. His blood alcohol content had surely been above safe levels, and that's what had been causing his hysterics. There was nothing to worry about, except perhaps the possibility of future liver issues.

Stanley had just been drunk. That was _all._

But if that was all, then why couldn't Stanford think about anything but the sound of Stanley’s self-deprecation? That apology, the word _goodbye..._

It was a little over an hour later when the phone rang again; he answered mechanically, still hollow and dazed. "Hello, this is Stanford Pines."

He vaguely recognized the responding voice as belonging to the man who had been yelling at Stanley to get off the phone. “You ever go by Ford?"

"Mm," he confirmed. "Is there anything I can help you with? I'm a very busy man."

"I think your brother or whatever called you from a payphone earlier? It was the phone right outside my bar. He had this nasty scrap of paper on ‘im—just says 'Ford' and then this number.”

"Yes, he called me."

"Alright, well, can ya come pick ‘im up?”

Ford closed his eyes, frustrated. Of course he had been worrying for no reason. Of course Stanley had just been seeking attention in the most disgusting way, then hanging back to drunkenly harass this poor man’s establishment. “I’m sorry, but no. As I said, I’m very busy, and I don’t have time to clean up my brother’s mess. Just send him on his way. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Listen, _Stanford,”_ the man snapped. “I’m busy, too, alright? It doesn’t help that it’s _game night_ and I had to close my bar early so I could take some tramp to the _hospital!”_

Ford felt his stomach drop through to the floor. "Excuse me?”

“Yeah, he tried to shoot himself right out on my fuckin’ sidewalk! I had to wrestle the fuckin’ gun out of his hands—he’s strong, too. Gave me a shiner the size of Texas. I told ‘im to leave, but he started hittin’ his head against the wall, sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout how I should let ‘im die, how he’s got nothin’ to live for.”

Stanford’s insides were seizing in panic. He held the phone in a white-knuckled grip.

“I tried to get ‘im to calm down, but then he just fuckin’ passed out, so I called the ambulance. Doubt he’s got any friends around here, so I thought I’d try to call you. No way in hell _I’m_ payin’ to keep this guy alive when he wants to die, anyway.”

“He’s still alive.” It wasn't a question. It _couldn't_ have been a question. Making it a question opened the possibility of the answer ‘no,’ and that wasn't an option.

“Yeah—barely. He’s blacked out and bloody, but doctors say he’ll be fine. Acute alcohol poisoning or somethin’. Listen, you gonna come pick ‘im up or not?”

Stanford pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where are you?”

“We’re off 34th and Heritage, by the-”

“No, I mean—what state, what city?”

“You don’t know what state your brother’s in?”

“Just _tell me!”_

“Christ, alright! Calm down. Winnemucca, Nevada.”

Stanford did some quick math in his head. Winnemucca was about three hundred and sixty miles from Gravity Falls, and the speed limit on US 95 was sixty-five miles per hour... If Stanford completely disregarded road safety laws and didn’t stop once on his way to Nevada...

“I’ll be there in four hours.”

So he wrote down the bar’s address, grabbed some cash, and hit the road.


	4. 03:06

Stan woke up in a strange room with white walls, white sheets, white everything. He started to sit up, trying to figure out where the fuck he was and why everything was so sterile and why his head hurt so  _ bad, _ but he froze in place when a low, familiar voice broke the silence. “Stanley?” It was urgent and half-broken, quiet as if its owner feared that being too loud would cause Stanley to disappear.

Stan dared to turn his head toward the voice. “Stanford?”

Ford was immediately at his twin’s side, tending to him frantically. “Stanley, you’re awake! Are you alright? Are you hurting? You shouldn’t be suffering any significant complications from the alcohol poisoning, but you probably have a major concussion, and I-” He stopped himself when he noticed Stan’s eyes, bloodshot and world-weary, staring up at him in disbelief. “Stanley? What’s wrong?”

Stan sniffled, tears welling behind his eyelids as his expression quickly turned nostalgic and misty. “S’great to see ya, Sixer,” he whispered, certain that speaking any louder would bring about the sob that he was currently working to hold back. 

Ford smiled sadly. “I only wish we could have reunited under different circumstances.”

Suddenly, memories of what Stan had said and done hit him like a flood; muscles tense, he looked away and swallowed thickly.

Goddammit, this was  _ exactly _ why he stayed away from rum.

After a thick stretch of silence, Stanford spoke again. “Stanley?”

“I-I’m sorry I called.”

Ford paused, analyzed the statement for a moment, then ventured to respond. “What do you mean?”

“I shouldn't’ve called ya. I should’ve just died in peace, without botherin’ ya, but... I had to hear your voice.”

“No! No, Stanley, I’m glad you called, I—I didn't realize...” He sighed, a deep frown carved onto his face. “How long have you been planning this? How long did you know you were going to—to—”

He couldn't say it. 

Stan just watched his brother for a long moment, then huffed and turned his stare blankly up to the ceiling. “I wasn’t  _ plannin’ _ it. Hell, I’d never have the guts to do somethin’ like that sober. I just got so shit faced, and I was diggin' around my car for more rum, and I found my gun and figured... Well, I figured if I ever did anythin’ worthwhile in my life, it’d be that.” 

Ford felt like he’d been suddenly submerged into an icy vacuum, and his heart was throbbing in his throat. He had nothing to say.

So he just kept asking questions.

“Are you going to do it again?”

“I dunno.” The answer may have been a touch too blunt, but for once in his life, Stan didn’t see the point in lying.

“I...” Ford was at a lost. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re my  _ brother!” _ he exclaimed, unable to stop himself. “Because I’ve already lost you, Stanley, and  _ it tore me apart.  _ I can’t lose you again—I can’t lose you for good.”

Yesterday, Stan would’ve sold his soul just to hear Ford say those exact words. But now that they were out in the open, he couldn’t believe them. He just got  _ mad. _

“Well,  _ that’s  _ a great fuckin’ joke.”

“Stan-”

“I coulda killed myself  _ eight years ago, _ Ford, and ya wouldn't've known the difference! How come ya care so fuckin’ much all of a sudden?”

“Stanley,  _ please-” _

“Yeah, I bet it fuckin’ sucks to see a grown-ass man bein' such a fuckin’ failure, breakin’ everythin’ he touches—I deserve to  _ die, _ Stanford! It’s not that I  _ wanna _ die, it’s that it’s my only chance to do somethin’  _ right  _ for once-”

**_“Stop!”_ **

Silence bled into the room as Stanford stared at his brother pleadingly, and Stanley glared daringly back.

“Stan, when you left-”

The vagrant scoffed. Ford sighed.

“When Pa kicked you out,” he resigned, unwilling to open that particular can of worms, “I was a goddamn  _ mess. _ I made myself stay mad at you, because when I wasn’t mad—Moses, when I wasn’t mad, I was  _ lost. _ Half of me was  _ gone, _ Stanley.

“I’ll never understand quite what you went through, because I always had parents and a home, but I  _ do _ know what it feels like when half of you is  _ gone. _ Do you think Pa would let me go look for you? By the time I moved out, I had no idea where to look, and I...” He closed his eyes. “I  _ had _ to be angry. I  _ had _ to hate you, because I  _ knew _ how much you must have hated me.”

All the fire was gone from Stan’s eyes. “Ford...” 

“Lee, I—I got used to being angry with you. I threw myself into research and academics, and I got used to half of me being gone. But half of me being  _ dead? _ I—” He took a moment to be silent, trying to stabilize his composure before continuing. “I can’t do that, Lee. Don’t make me do that.”

Stan didn’t know what to say; he hadn’t ever expected that Ford actually  _ missed _ him—he’d considered it, but never  _ seriously.  _

This would’ve been so much easier to handle if Stan weren’t crying.

If Stan weren’t crying, he could think of a lie or a cheat or something,  _ anything _ that would put the conversation back on a comfortable track, a track that he could navigate... But he  _ was _ crying; he was sniveling and sniffling, and all he could do was look away, hold his breath, and try (and fail) to keep his shoulders from trembling too pathetically. 

He couldn't remember the last time he cried sober; he’d forgotten what it was like.

It  _ sucked. _

“Stan... Stan, are you crying?”

“No, I’m just allergic to dipshits.”

“Lee...”

“Shut up.”

“Lee-”

“Shut  _ up.  _ You’re bein’ stupid and I don’t wanna hear it. You’re... You’re makin’ me wanna stay.”

“Good!”

“No! Because my life  _ sucks, _ Ford! Last week, I saw someone put a roofie in my drink, but I drank it anyway so I wouldn’t have to be conscious for the rest of the night! I woke up behind a dumpster with hand-shaped bruises all over me!”

Ford flinched and trained his stare on the tile floor.

“That was a good day, Ford! That was a  _ good day!  _ Usually, people don’t have the fuckin’ courtesy to drug me.” His voice broke off at the end, and he looked away shamefully. After taking a moment to recompose himself, he continued, “Dyin’... It wasn’t gonna be a way to escape my life. It was gonna be a way to make it better for everyone else—to get rid of somethin’ that wasn’t s’posed to be there in the first place.

“But when that jackoff took my gun away, I realized how excited I’d gotten about not havin' to deal with myself anymore... And now? Now you’re sayin' shit that makes me think ya actually care about me. And that’s real fuckin’ stupid, Stanford, ya know that? That’s a real dick move.”

And what could Stanford say? 

What could either of them say?

Stanford stayed with Stanley in the hospital for the rest of that night, but neither of them said another word. 

Neither of them slept.


	5. 10:37

“Ya can go now, y’know.”

Stan was glaring at his brother through the rolled-down window of his El Diablo; the vagrant twin had been discharged from the hospital once the doctors determined his condition was stable (luckily, the bar owner had mentioned nothing of his suicidal tendencies), and Ford had given him a ride back to his Cadillac. 

Now, Ford was standing awkwardly on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets as he struggled for a way to articulate his thoughts.

“There’s nothin' for ya to say.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Well, can ya hurry it up? I don’t have all day.”

Not that Stan had anywhere to  _ go, _ per se, but being around his brother was getting more painful by the second. He would’ve driven off while Ford was inside paying the barkeep for his trouble had he not explicitly instructed, ‘Wait here, okay?’ with a look in his eyes that could have made a fuckin’  _ rock _ feel sorry for him. 

Eventually, Ford cleared his throat as if preparing to pitch his thesis to the board of directors. “I... I don’t trust you.”

Stan rolled his eyes and took to adjusting the rearview mirror. “Yeah, I love ya too, pal.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Ford rushed. “I mean, I don’t...” He took a deep breath to clear the slate and start over. “I don’t want you to get hurt anymore—by yourself or anyone else. So... I want you to come back with me. To my home, I mean. I live alone in a cabin in Oregon, and while it’s not exactly homey, it’s certainly  _ large _ enough for two people. I have a spare bedroom—well, it’s currently more of a swirling vat of loose papers and folders, but it can certainly be cleaned up-”

“No.”

Stan wouldn’t let himself even think about the proposal; it was too good to be anything that belonged in his life. He’d shut down the instant that Ford got to the word ‘home’ and only came back to stop the poor bastard from rambling.

“I don’t need your pity-help, Mr. Guilty-Conscience—I’ve been takin’ care of myself this long. ’Sides, ya already let yourself get duped into payin’ those quack money-vampires-”

_ “Doctors, _ Stanley. They’re called  _ doctors,  _ and what I gave them was payment for your medical bills.”

“Yeah, that. Ya paid my bills, so that should be enough to clear your debt or whatever.”

“This isn’t about  _ debt _ , Stan. This isn’t about trying to make up for whatever I’ve done. This is... Well, do you remember when I said that I’ve already lost you once, and I don’t want to lose you again?”

Stan nodded tersely.

“I  _ meant _ it. This isn’t about correcting my mistakes—it’s about preventing myself from making the same ones again. It’s... It’s about half of me not being gone anymore.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, “Ya really aren’t jokin’, are ya?”

“No, Stanley. I want to be your brother.”

That last word hung in the air, a heavy phrase with inexplicable connotations that sounded so foreign, yet at the same time so  _ nostalgic,  _ to each twin. 

Stan didn’t say anything for a long time; his expression was unreadable, and Ford grew more anxious with each passing moment. The first movement to come to the impossibly still scene was Stan suddenly getting out of the car and throwing his arms around his brother; Ford was shocked, to say the least, but he didn’t hesitate to return the hug. They just stood there on the curb, lost in a past-due embrace, and Ford rubbed small circles into Stan’s back while Stan buried his head in Ford’s shoulder and did not, did not, did  _ not _ cry, not even a little bit (and if Ford felt cool wet tears soaking through the collar of his shirt, well, then that was his problem).

Once Stan finished not-crying, he lifted his head and ventured to look into his brother’s eyes. “Ya won’t regret taking me in—I’ll get a job and earn my keep, I swear.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it—we can worry about that later. When was the last time you had a real hot meal?”

Stan couldn’t keep from laughing, mirthless as it was. “Hell if I know.”

“Well, before we leave, let’s get some food.”

“Thanks so much, Sixer, seriously, I’ll pay ya back when I can-”

“I said we’ll worry about that later,” Ford reassured him. “For now, let’s get some food. I haven’t eaten breakfast, yet—does breakfast sound okay?”

“Breakfast sounds  _ awesome,” _ Stan groaned, throwing his head back and placing a hand over his stomach. “Shit, y’know what I miss?”

“What’s that?”

“Ma’s potato pancakes.” A wistful smile grew on the poor man’s lips.

Ford mirrored the expression, nodding in understanding. “Well, there’s a very low probability of finding that particular meal nearby, but... I think I saw a Jewish Deli on the way over here,” he tried.

Stan’s sad smile grew into a childish grin. “That sounds great, Sixer.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah—it sounds great.”


End file.
